In Yesterday's Reach and Tomorrow's
by quantumspork
Summary: Albus Dumbledore had accumulated a century of regrets, and he was unwilling to let them pass even in death. Rating may change to M in future chapters.
1. In My Time of Dying

**AN:** First, this fic would never have happened without the unquantifiable volumes of help with brainstorming and editing from my dear Lori (~shally-wa). Many many thanks.

Second, if I owned anything in the Potterverse, it would have happened much more like this.

Third, title is from "Dolores" by Algernon Charles Swinburne. I do enjoy pretentious Victorian poetry references.

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><p><em>Now Cinderella don't you go to sleep<em>  
><em>It's such a bitter form of refuge<em>  
><em>Why don't you know the kingdom's under siege<em>  
><em>And everybody needs you<em>  
><em>Is there still magic in the midnight sun<em>  
><em>Or did you leave it back in '61<em>  
><em>In the cadence of a young man's eyes<em>  
><em>Out where the dreams all hide<em>

—The Killers, "A Dustland Fairytale"

* * *

><p><em>1 September 1892<em>

"Dumbledore, Albus!"

Professor Darcy Livingston, teacher of Herbology and assistant headmistress, called my name with a valiant attempt at tonelessness. Whispers filled the Great Hall nonetheless as I made my way to the front of the gaggle of first years: _his father's in Azkaban—murdered three Muggle boys in cold blood, it was in the Prophet last year—I heard he was planning to use them for necromancy—I thought it was for an illegal youth potion_. On and on, each rumor more ludicrous than the last. I kept my head high, even smiling a bit, as I approached the Sorting Hat. None of them had the faintest idea of what had truly happened, and I couldn't begrudge them that.

I lifted the Hat and placed it on my head, and a small voice filled my ear.

_Oh no, not one of these again_.

_What do you mean by that?_ I demanded. The hat answered before the words had fully formed in my mind.

_You borderline cases are always such a bother,_ the hat said. _An intellect that's Ravenclaw through and through, but a willingness to use it in ways that are pure Slytherin. You'd prosper in either, no doubt, but in quite different ways…_

_I wish to be in Slytherin, then,_ I thought.

_Why?_ the hat demanded, as if it couldn't see the answer for itself.

_Because I can do the greatest good there._

_Now that's the sort of reason I'd expect from a Gryffindor,_ observed the hat, _but as you wish, child. The truly great thrive no matter where they go. _"SLYTHERIN!"

A century or so of practicing advanced Occlumency had just paid off, albeit in a way I had never anticipated.

However much I looked eleven at the moment (and I do not believe anyone ever looked quite so eleven as I), I had lived nearly a hundred and five years beyond that, and now I was returning to my childhood to right a series of ancient wrongs.

Near the end, as the second war with Tom Riddle drew to a head, the weight of a hundred years of mistakes and missed chances had become nearly unbearable. I had never been able to shake a certain conviction that a man of my intelligence, resources, and noble intentions ought to have _done more_. Dragon's blood and alchemy had not stopped Tom Riddle from destroying two generations of the Wizarding community, nor did they absolve me of Ariana's death. Or Gellert's life.

This insurmountable guilt, this foolish savior complex that I had never managed to cure myself of, was what led me to my research on time travel. I had known of its existence since my first Department of Mysteries internship at age thirteen, but hadn't considered it in sufficient depth until well into my fifties. In those days the only known, let alone Ministry-sanctioned, method of time travel was the Time-Turner, a device which transported the user bodily in time, such that there would be a period in linear time with either two coexisting copies of the person or their absence altogether. I lost interest in this method quickly; going back in time with a Time-Turner would be a painfully precarious business, as no one had yet experimentally verified that an encounter with one's past self would not cause the universe to implode. A more serious problem was that one could not truly alter the past with them, but only follow what had _already been done_, intentionally or not. Something in their fundamental design disallowed causality paradoxes, when a paradox was exactly what I hoped I could effect by changing my past.

The first paper I read theorizing on alternate forms of time travel was from a journal called _Ex Machina: Intersections of Magic and Science_. It was an obscure little publication that most of the wizarding world would not deign to read, dedicated to exploring connections between magical phenomena and Muggles' scientific laws, with articles about everything from the genetics of magical blood to the application of Muggle developments in mathematics to Arithmancy. The article that inspired my own research was about the implications of the Muggle concept of "spacetime" and the possibilities it held for time travel, the hypothesis being that if space and time were in fact one entity, and the soul could be separated from the body in space via death, Dementor's kiss, or Horcrux, then there ought to be a way for the soul to move independently of the body in _time_ as well, such that one could go back to one's youth with a lifetime's memories intact. The former idea was naturally the one that captured my imagination, as it had done to so many men before me. The difference was that I had a chance, however slim, of achieving such a dream.

I spent nine years working relentlessly towards that end, but I had begun too late. I had not made nearly enough progress to attempt a journey backwards by 1945, when I could no longer ignore that Grindelwald—I could not help thinking of the boy from 1899 as Gellert, and the man from 1945 as Grindelwald—had gained an empire spanning from Iberia to Prussia, and all of Britain feared being next to fall. The more power he gained, the more desperately I worked; I was sure that if I could only go back to 1899, knowing what I knew now, I could bring him over to the light and prevent the fall of Europe. I might have succeeded, had I begun my experiments twenty years earlier.

It was not until late in 1981 that I resumed my work on that particular subject. I knew from the instant I saw the Potter child's lightning scar that Riddle would return one day, and that I must not be so overconfident as to think that I might live to see his final defeat—or even that he would in fact suffer such. My death, whatever the circumstances, would be the point at which my soul would be transported back to my youth.

By then the Department of Mysteries had moved on from Time-Turners, albeit with no intention of ever making their efforts public. I was able to learn of how they had isolated pure time-bending magic by removing the constraints that enforced a consistent timeline, and I soon replicated their results in the dungeons of Hogwarts. From there, it was a matter of devising a spell that bound the time magic to my soul, and instructing it to revert to a certain point in time upon the separation of my soul from my body. Simple in concept, vastly difficult in execution, especially as I had no way of testing my work. It took me thirteen years to weave a spell with reasonable chances of working.

I had originally intended to return to the summer I met Gellert. It seemed the natural point of divergence—to change that summer would be to change the world. But then came Riddle. The more I observed the generations that followed him in Slytherin, the less recognizable the house became. There were still all the old pureblood families, to be sure, but the Slytherin that had produced Horace Slughorn and the Slytherin that had produced the Death Eaters were two entirely different houses, the latter a twisted parody of the former. I thought for a long time that it was merely cultural evolution within the house, but often I wondered if Riddle had not put some sort of jinx on the Sorting Hat the same night he cursed the Defense position, to sort for cruelty before cunning in Slytherins. Whatever the cause, Slytherin had shifted from a house known for its cleverness at best and ruthlessness at worst to a house known for its blind hatred of Muggles and Muggle-borns. Eventually I realized there was a fairly simple way to reverse that, or at least halt its progress.

In my previous life I had demanded that the Sorting Hat place me in Gryffindor, the house of both my parents. The hat had advised, then as now, that I go into Slytherin or Ravenclaw, but eventually relented and said that my sheer obstinacy was enough for Gryffindor. This time, I would choose Slytherin, and go on to become a defender of Muggles and Muggle-borns just as before. I alone might not be enough, but if I could make it so that wizards and witches thought of my name rather than Voldemort's when they thought of Slytherin, the house would have a chance at redemption.

That was what I tried to keep in mind while I walked to be Sorted. When I put on the hat and hid my memories, though, all I knew was that choosing Slytherin felt like the most honest thing I had done since slipping the Gaunt ring onto my finger.

I rose to mild applause and went to join the Slytherins, but was unable to keep from glancing towards the Gryffindor table where Elphias Doge had just sat down, looking scarred and sickly from dragon pox. Seeing his downcast face from across the hall instead of the seat beside him—

In that moment it became real to me, not just the clever plan of mine to end all clever plans. These were the lives I would change. The lives I had already changed.

Slightly overwhelmed with the enormity of what I had done, I stumbled as I was about to take my seat and quite narrowly avoided landing with my face in a goblet. Amidst barely-disguised snickers I silently thanked the universe for the well-deserved lesson in humility.

The Sorting proceeded as it had done for ten—no, nine centuries, ending with Lysandra Yaxley joining our table. I was surprised at how many of the names I'd forgotten, and how many I only remembered because of their descendants. There was nothing quite like revisiting one's youth to make a man feel terribly old.

Headmistress Niobe Vector tapped her glass and stood to give the start-of-term speech. She was a tall, handsome woman with close-cropped silver hair, reminiscent of a moonlit night in her star-spangled black robes. When she spoke, her voice was startlingly resonant.

"Students and staff, I bid you welcome to another year at Hogwarts. This day marks a particularly notable moment in Hogwarts history—the thousandth anniversary of its founding." There were scattered gasps and incredulous looks from some of the younger students as they tried to conceptualize that length of time. Headmistress Vector continued over them. "I hope this occasion will inspire you to reflect on the great legacy you will all inherit—not only that of the Founders, but of every witch and wizard who walked these halls and strove to learn our most ancient and noble arts. May you honour them and carry on in their name."

The hall broke out in dutiful applause, which ended immediately once the feast appeared. I failed to notice it immediately, as I was scanning the staff table in hopes I hadn't forgotten any of the faces there. Professors Livingston and Vector were already deep in conversation. On Vector's left there was her husband Silvius, professor of Transfiguration, gesticulating emphatically but somehow never letting his sleeves (aubergine silk with gilded embroidery) touch his shepherd's pie. He'd always been an inspiration to me, not least in matters of apparel. His audience was Potions mistress Tamara Ashcroft, Head of Gryffindor. I would miss being in her House. On the other side of the table I recognized sisters Fenella and Aithne Caradoc, of Astronomy and Arithmancy respectively; Theoden Gamp of Ancient Runes; good old Cuthbert Binns, still breathing and as quite as dull in life as in death; and finally Phineas Nigellus Black, Charms teacher and Head of Slytherin. There were several more professors whose names I did not quite recall; they no doubt taught the subjects I had disdained to take as a child.

There was no seat for a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. That post was an invention of Armando Dippet's and mine, created when the first whispers of Grindelwald's atrocities reached British shores. The class that more than a few of my students would come to regard as the noblest kind of magic had originally been intended to train an army.

A tap on the shoulder broke my reverie. I turned to see a pale boy's face framed in a white-blonde mane, regarding me through cool silver eyes. He looked to be about fourteen. "You're Albus Dumbledore, aren't you?"

I nodded. "You must be a Malfoy." This would be Lucius's grandfather. Merlin help me, I would never be able to forget my age.

He smirked a little, in what I charitably assumed was an attempt at a genuine smile. "Pericles Aurelius Malfoy. I expect you've heard of my family."

"Something like that, yes."

"Quite a few of us have heard of yours as well, I believe." He leaned in towards me a little, taking a slightly conspiratorial tone. "I'd wager no one at this table thinks your father ought to have been sent to Azkaban for ridding the world of a few more Muggles, I'll have you know."

"Blimey, that was _your_ father?" Another first year, Vortigem Montague if I remembered correctly, gaped at me from across the table, displaying an unsightly mouthful of Yorkshire pudding. "Did you get to see him do it? What curses did he use?"

I spared Montague only a frosty look—judging from his face I still had some power to intimidate the students who were now my peers—before turning back to Pericles. "I certainly don't think he should have gone to Azkaban either. While I'm grateful for the support and I understand your fascination, it's not something I really enjoy discussing." _That hardly sounded like an eleven-year-old_, I scolded myself. Then again, I had never really sounded like an eleven-year-old in my life.

"Sore spot, is it?" chimed in an older girl on my right. "I know the feeling—I've got an aunt and uncle in Azkaban just for trying to reclaim a Wizarding village from the Muggles who'd taken over. The Ministry's gotten so paranoid about secrecy that they'd sooner let us die out completely than protect our birthright. So many of us are so sick of hiding, I can't imagine things will stay like this."

Plenty of typical Slytherin narratives surfaced in the conversation that followed: magical blood being a sign of inherent superiority much in the style of the Calvinist Elect, Muggle-borns as imperialists, et cetera. There was far less, though, of the fanaticism and bloodlust that had characterized the Death Eaters, even as children. I had never doubted that the house could be saved, but the first spark of hope was wonderful to see nonetheless.

The prefect who led us to the dungeons once the feast concluded was most likely a Black, going by his heavy-lidded eyes and strong jaw. He stopped by the blank stretch of wall where the door to the common room was hidden and spoke a password: "_Noctem_." Several stones melted away and he showed us into the dimly lit, oppressively low-ceilinged chamber. The Slytherin dungeons were not a place I had frequented more than strictly necessary as headmaster; I found that the cold limestone and chronic dampness brought on a certain ache in the bones. Fortunately, that was an old man's ailment. The green and gray of the common room, broken only by the modest fire crackling in the immodestly ostentatious fireplace, were now nearly soothing after the bright golden glow of the Great Hall. We only had a moment to observe it before we were all herded off to the dormitories, although everyone was doing their best not to seem remotely tired. The bedchambers were a row of rooms along a hall just off the corner of the common room, labeled "First Years" through "Seventh Years." I was pleased to see that our ceiling was skylit with enchanted glass, allowing lake-filtered moonlight to seep through.

The boys I would be rooming with for the next seven years were Montague, Herbert Burke, Ferdinand Witherby, and Edmund Prince. I remembered all of them only vaguely from my original school years, for which I was grateful. It gave me an opportunity to get to know them with as unbiased a mind as I could manage. For all my years as a teacher, I had forgotten in some ways what children were like when unencumbered by adult presence. Wayward, contradictory, simple yet subtle in ways they couldn't see in themselves. Ever since I had come back in time it had been strange pretending to be a child, but it was most strange of all to be treated as an equal to these boys, not an authority figure. True friendship with any of them might be impossible, but then that was something I'd never quite gotten the knack of anyway. I couldn't help but appreciate the irony: friendship would be more difficult now than ever to forge, but also far more necessary. I had to reach out to these children in order to redeem their descendants. A pity indeed I could never afford them any honesty about my intentions.

_What of Gellert?_ I wondered as I climbed into bed. _When the time comes, what honesty will I afford him?_

But that was a question for another day. Another year.

I fell asleep smiling.


	2. Letters to Erised

**AN:** I should probably note that this fic is/will be heavily based on the theories of Swythyv and Red Hen. Many conspiracies ahead!

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><p><em>But there's nowhere to hide from the ghost in my mind<br>It's cold in these bones of a man and a child  
>And there's no one who knows, and there's nowhere to go<br>There's no one to see who can see to my soul_

—Spring Awakening, "The Mirror-Blue Night"

* * *

><p><em>5 September 1892<em>

_Dear Mother,_

_Slytherin it is! I know you were expecting Ravenclaw, and the hat did give me a choice between Slytherin and Ravenclaw, but I thought that Slytherin needed me much more than Ravenclaw. It sounds vain, yes, but it does have such a reputation for being the stuffy old pureblood house, and I thought that a breath of fresh air, so to speak, might do it good. I hope you understand._

_I am enjoying all my classes and professors so far, especially Transfiguration and Astronomy. You were right, the library is indeed my favorite place at Hogwarts. Books from the age of the Founders, can you imagine! I intend to have read every tome in it by the time I graduate._

_As promised, I have been making an effort to make friends, although it feels like one does not make friends so much as alliances in Slytherin. There is a fourth year named Pericles Malfoy who seems to have taken an interest in me, as well as a sixth year prefect named Cordelia Moran. I do not find the students in my own year very easy to talk to, but I will continue to do my best. I believe we have much to learn from each other._

_Give my love to Aberforth and Ariana._

_Your son,_

_Albus_

_P.S. The Muggle taffy you packed for me has proved most popular, even with my classmates who say they hold all things Muggle in contempt. Thank you very much._

* * *

><p><em>30 November 1892<em>

_Dear Mother,_

_Excellent news! I have been selected for a great honour by Professor Black. I am now a member of a club of Hogwarts' very best and brightest, called the Alchemist's Cell (Professor Black was frustratingly vague about how it came to be named that). He said that my Charms work was the most promising he'd seen in years, and that several of my other professors had said the same of my performance in their subjects. My childish inclination to show off has served me well after all, it seems. Professor Black did warn me that I ought not to speak of the club to other students so as not to inspire undue envy._

_There are only four other students in the club: Pericles Malfoy, the wandmaker Ollivander's son Touchstone, and two girls named Brighid Prewett and Margaret Crowley. Professor Black didn't say so outright, but I think it must be rare for first years to be admitted, for the other students all seemed as though they were trying to hide their surprise when they met me, and I'm the youngest in the group by three years._

_The Cell meets essentially on Professor Black's whim, according to the other students. There was much that they would not tell me: whether the club has any purpose beyond that of an honours society, what sort of duties might be expected of its members, and what benefits membership provides. It seems as though much about this can only be learned through experience, which intrigues me. I shall keep you updated if I am permitted._

_Other than that, I haven't much news. I am still finding classes easy and the library diverting. I do hope you can forgive the infrequency and brevity of my letters; I am keeping myself as busy as I can, and owls are not always easy to borrow._

_With love to all of you,_

_Albus_

* * *

><p><em>23 December 1892<em>

_Dear Mother,_

_A very happy Christmas to you all! While I am enjoying the time I have to explore Hogwarts more fully, of course I miss our family dreadfully, especially at this time of year. Luckily Pericles and Margaret are here as well, so it's not too lonely. The only other person from my year who is staying is a Gryffindor boy named Elphias Doge. We've become fairly friendly despite the House differences—we're both just a little on the outside of everything. He had a nasty bout of dragon pox last summer, poor boy, and somehow nobody's thought to look past his scars. He's perfectly sweet, if a little (understandably) clingy._

_The day term ended, some of the older students put on a Christmas pantomime after the feast. It was a retelling of the old Tam Lin ballad, with real fairies as part of the Faerie Court chorus. There were unfortunately no boys who were willing to perform in it, so Tam Lin was portrayed by a girl in disguise, which everyone thought most comical for reasons I don't quite understand. Our Head Girl, Celia Hartley, was spectacular as the Queen of Faerie; Professor Ashcroft gave her real butterfly wings and thirteen ravens to hold up her train and veil. Professor Binns began to give us a lecture afterwards about the historical roots of the legends of the Fair Folk, but Headmistress Vector cut him off and sent us all to bed, probably because she didn't want us all falling asleep at the table._

_It's difficult to find suitable gifts from here, but being friends with older students who can go to Hogsmeade makes it somewhat easier. For Aberforth at Christmas, a toy soldier charmed with indestructibility, which he'll certainly need, and for his birthday a scarf. For Ariana a music box that will never unwind, complete with a Somnia spell woven into the melody for both your sakes. And for you, well, something I think you miss._

_Love,_

_Albus_

[Enclosed: one tin soldier in redcoat uniform, one hand-knitted scarf, one blue music box, and one box of Spanish marchpane]

* * *

><p>[An excerpt from In the Blood: Magical Physiology and Anatomy by Professor Eulalie Sinclair and Healer Isidore Beauvais, published in translation 1877]<p>

_In this enlightened day and age, it is easy for a wizard to assume that the knowledge that the brain is the seat of magical power is simply a matter of common sense. This is not quite so, however: the ancient Egyptians were just as certain that magic lay solely in the heart, and in India the seven chakras all correspond to different types of magical ability, channeled through the subtle bodies. Still other magical cultures find the idea of embodied magic absurd, positing instead that magic is a force of nature to be found in the ether, the very fabric of the universe, and that wizards are gifted only with the power to manipulate it. Similar to any given society's means of focusing magic, whether that be through wands or summoning rituals or ingestion of certain magically potent herbs, the understanding of the relationship between magic and the body is far from universal. These views are all worthy of investigation, to be sure, and one may even speculate that the mere belief in magical properties being connected to certain body parts may make it so for any given wizard, but that is a topic for another book._

_Anthropological considerations aside, there is a substantial collection of evidence in the West that the brain holds the lion's share of control over a wizard's magic, although it remains unclear whether this should be interpreted as the brain functioning as the place of magic's residence or merely the conduit for an as yet unexplained energy. Consider the case of the witch Delphine Delauney[4] (1743-1864), who suffered a severe blow to the right temple after being thrown from a spooked horse at age thirty-eight. During the healing process she discovered a heretofore dormant talent for pyromancy, and performed several thousand well-documented, largely accurate fire readings before her death. Or consider the warlock Umberto Guglielmo[5] (1807-), injured in a Vicenza tavern brawl at age 47. Upon recovering from three skull fractures he gained previously unknown Metamorphmagus capabilities, but also found himself unable to perform the simplest of charms. Several dozen more examples of startling changes in magical prowess following head trauma have been recorded in wizarding hospitals across Europe since the Renaissance,[6] but the phenomenon remains largely unspoken of in the wizarding community at large. Among Healers it is common to keep such instances as quiet as possible, to prevent foolhardy wizards from self-injuring in an attempt to alter their powers._

_There appears to be no recognizable pattern to traumatically induced magical disruptions. No two cases, no matter how alike, have ever yet produced the same effect magically. Even in the most severe cases where permanent brain damage is sustained and subjects' speech and/or motor functions are impaired, the subjects' magic is only sometimes reduced to a predictably similar childlike state. Rarely, a subject's magic may instead become unusually strong and nigh impossible to control, at times verging on wild bursts of Dark magic.[7] Healers' official reports on these cases frequently conclude with recommendations for euthanasia or permanent confinement in an isolation ward._

* * *

><p><em>28 December 1892<em>

_Dear Mother,_

_A most heartfelt thank you for the socks—exactly what winter in Scotland calls for! I am delighted to hear that Ariana is sleeping soundly, and that Aberforth is exercising his creativity in trying to injure the soldier. You are most welcome for the marchpane; your love for Muggle sweets is infectious, and I thought I ought to thank you properly for the taffy._

_Love,_

_Albus_

* * *

><p>[A parchment enchanted to open only at Ariana's touch, read itself aloud in Albus's voice, and self-immolate once finished]<p>

_4 April 1893_

_Ariana—_

_On the first two sheets of parchment I began with variations of wishes for a happy birthday, and each time tossed it aside in disgust at the hollowness. On the second four I waxed philosophical about age, a rather unfortunate habit of mine these days, I'm afraid. The seventh parchment I simply blotted by mistake, and now I arrive at parchment number eight. One parchment for each year of yours—I hope you are as pleased as I am with the sheer insignificance of the coincidence. Let us hope I do not ruin this sheet as well._

_I wonder if you know that today is your eighth birthday. I wonder if you can comprehend what that means, that the earth has traced eight full ellipses in the sky since you were born. I wonder if this time you will live another eight ellipses._

_What could you have been, Ariana, had you been given the chance to grow up free from the mercies of two different trios of boys? What sort of powers lay dormant in your poor battered brain? There were times when I looked into your eyes and thought I caught a glimpse of something—Other. Feral and ancient and knowing. I saw it sometimes in the eyes of a mermaid or a centaur or a vampire when their gaze left mine. Less than human, and so much more. No, it is meaningless to try and quantify humanity. Even now the words to describe it escape me. Perhaps it was only a delusion my memory constructed post hoc, a feeble rationalization for your death when the guilt threatened to bury me alive. Too dangerous and too damaged to live. Your funeral was a virtual parade of "it's for the best after all, she's not suffering anymore, she's in a better place," followed by Aberforth's well-aimed blow to my face. Only he completely resisted believing it all. Another of life's hidden tests that he passed and I failed, quite the reverse of how I thought it was supposed to be._

_Listen to me. Listen to the sentimental, narcissistic ramblings of an old, old man who still forgets that there is more left for him than long-suppressed self-pity and the machinations of a war fought through children barely older than you. Listen to me using you as a receptacle for all my late-night misery, because I cannot always tell if my voice is anything more than pretty nonsense to your ears._

_I have been reading and rereading, Ariana, what precious little I can find on the effects of trauma on magical brains. I don't care how slim a chance there is of healing you in any capacity. I will take it. It is the least I can give you, as penance for sins uncommitted in this life._

_I know I cannot promise you a place at Hogwarts, or any sort of normal life. What would a normal life be, anyway? Certainly nothing our family has ever known. But I will promise you an unimprisoned life._

_You haunted me all my years, Ariana. Preyed on my every thought. You became a constant reminder of where my ambition led. You sat next to me on the Wizengamot and whispered me away from pushing for Minister for Magic. You convinced me I was only safe as a puppet of wizards older and wiser than I, rather than a great sorcerer in my own right. I made you into a symbol over the decades, my very own martyr who died to save my soul from the temptations of power. I cannot separate the Ariana who is alive and a person in her own right from Ariana the cautionary tale._

_Do not trust me, even as I try to save you._

_Albus_

[Enclosed: a set of multicoloured self-braiding hair ribbons]


	3. Homecoming

_She's barely moving now_  
><em> Warming in the sun, warming in the sun<em>  
><em> I left her colder now<em>  
><em> Than almost anyone.<em>  
><em> Warming in the sun, warming in the sun<em>  
><em> And the light she finds is golden<em>  
><em> And I can't take my eyes away<em>

—Third Eye Blind, "Persephone"

* * *

><p><em>30 June 1893<em>

My mother had said she would arrive at King's Cross about ten minutes late to avoid the worst of the crowds; she greatly disliked being seen in public, and even more greatly disliked being away from Ariana. Currently she was twenty-six minutes late, and I was beginning to wonder if I should just Apparate home on my own in case Ariana had had a particularly bad episode or Aberforth had gotten lost on the moors again. I sat on my trunk and leaned against the Muggle side of the barrier, pretending to be deeply absorbed in a book so as to deflect concerned questions from passing Muggles, although in truth, I couldn't have focused on any book for more than half a sentence at this time.

In a hopefully short while I would see my mother and sister and brother again, all but one of whom had been dead ninety-nine years in my memory. My nerves were nearly singing. It was funny, I realized, how I could make pleasant small talk with the most evil wizard to ever live without batting an eyelash, but facing my family made my stomach churn unreasonably.

I had painstakingly calibrated the time travel spell to send me back to midway through the Hogwarts Express journey, missing the goodbyes to my family by only a few hours. I couldn't have stood to be reunited with them only to be sent away again so soon. It was painful to spend the first ten months aware that they were very much alive in Godric's Hollow only a few hundred miles from me, but I knew it to be for the best. I could let them believe that any changes in me upon coming home were due to Hogwarts, and I had time to sort through and hopefully come to terms with my long-repressed memories of childhood, however overshadowed they were by the tragedies of 1899. I had still not fully succeeded at the latter, but I had as good a sense of how life at home had been as I was ever likely to have. There was the ever-present threat of Ariana's rages, the constant exhortations from our mother to tiptoe around her lest we do anything to set her off, but there was also the way she lit up a room with a smile. There was the squabbling and the silences between Aberforth and I, for never had there been two siblings less alike since Kate and Bianca of _The Taming of the Shrew_, but there was also the laughter that more often than not accompanied our wrestling. There were the premature lines on my mother's face and the haunted look in her dark eyes when she beheld her daughter, but there were also the small kindnesses to us she went out of her way for whenever she got the chance. I still kept some of that September taffy hidden away at the bottom of my trunk.

A rustle of skirts, a shadow across the pages, and a sharp twist of my insides. I looked up into a face I hadn't seen since I was seventeen, a face I remembered all too clearly framed by a casket. There were the sharp cheekbones and long nose Aberforth and I had inherited, the skin a few shades darker than typical English pallor, and the jet-black hair wound into a tight knot at the nape of her neck.

The book slid off my lap and crashed to the stone floor as I stood and embraced her, and for a brief moment felt her stiff posture soften as she patted my hair.

"I missed you, Mother," I breathed, for once not needing to pretend at being a child at all. She had always been the only one who could reduce me to a little boy, no matter the circumstances. It had last worked on an arrogant sixteen-year-old, and now it worked on a marginally less arrogant hundred-and-sixteen-year-old.

I caught a glimpse of one of her infrequent smiles, and then it was gone as she said, "Come, we mustn't dawdle here."

I nodded wordlessly, grabbed my book and trunk, and let her lead me away from the station and Apparate us back home.

Home. The little house on the edge of Godric's Hollow, with all of Dartmoor for a backyard and only Bathilda Bagshot and a few oblivious Muggles for our nearest neighbors. The house that had been all but obliterated by that fateful duel. I held my breath as we went up the front path and Mother unlocked the solid oak door.

It was the scent more than anything that made me forget to move, until Mother pulled me inside and hurried upstairs to check on Ariana. The old smells of musk and candles and faint traces of wild magic, long buried but never totally forgotten. I could have stood there forever, just breathing in the air.

That was not to be, though, for suddenly there was a shout of "_Albus!_" and a redheaded blur barreling towards me. Aberforth threw his arms around me with all the irrepressible energy of a nine-year-old boy who spent far too much time cooped up at home, and I laughed and laughed as I hugged him back fiercely. My brother before I gave him cause to hate me.

He disengaged quickly, embarrassed at such a display, and stood back at arm's length. "Bloody hell, Al, are you _crying_?"

"Language, Aberforth—what?" I lifted a hand to my cheek. "Why…yes, I believe I am."

"You always were a girl, you know that?" he smirked, with just enough affectionate humor to offset the contempt.

I smiled gently. "If by that you mean unafraid of my feelings, then I'm not ashamed to say yes."

Mother reappeared at the top of the stairs. "I think your sister is well enough to welcome you home, Albus."

My breath hitched. This was what I'd been dwelling on for weeks—months—years—with a peculiar mixture of anticipation and dread. "Come up with me," I said to Aberforth when my voice returned. "She always favored you."

Climbing the stairs was at once a monumental effort and a barely conscious act. Her room was the fourth and last door from the landing, in the corner facing the backyard where she could do the least damage.

I gripped Aberforth's shoulder involuntarily—"Geroff, Al, you're hurting me"—as Mother opened the door, letting sunset light flood the hall.

"Darling," she said softly, "your oldest brother is here to see you." She motioned for me to enter.

The room was bare save for a bed, nightstand, and dresser. Blank white walls and a rough pine floor, only one window.

My little sister sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her lap and swaying slightly, disheveled hair glowing in the orange rays of sunset. I found myself trembling.

One always had to be careful when approaching her. Sudden movements were dangerous, as was too much noise, but neither did she like feeling as though someone was sneaking up on her. I moved towards her with soft, slow footfalls, Aberforth a few steps behind. For a young boy, he could be surprisingly quiet when it was necessary.

"Ariana." I was about three feet from her when the word left my lips, and the reaction was immediate. She met my eyes.

Blue against blue. At last I understood how students must have felt under my gaze. I felt held captive, powerless to prevent her seeing through everything I was and everything I played at being. It was uncannily close to being subject to Legilimency—but no, that was of course impossible. Her eyes were only disconcerting in their unblinking honesty, a quality one did not see in many people, even children.

She did not often tolerate being touched, but could be quite free with her affection when she was the one who decided when and how it would be given. I bent down and extended a hand, as I would to a frightened kitten. An offer she could accept or refuse, nothing else.

I couldn't say how long we stayed like that. Her thought process played over her face clear as day, the struggle of the decision to respond. It was remarkable how expressive she could be without ever saying a word. Not for the first time, I thought there might be a brilliant witch trapped in a body that couldn't accommodate her.

At last Ariana reached back for me, fumbling a little as she entwined her fingers with mine. Everything the Mirror of Erised could never give me was contained in that single touch.

The rest of history be damned, this was all the reason I had needed to come back.

* * *

><p><em>Before midnight, the same day<em>

I crept into Ariana's room and immediately cast a muffling spell over the walls. It was a mercy that thanks to the music box she usually slept soundly, disturbed by fits or nightmares only on occasion; I would have to be painstakingly careful not to wake her. She lay on her side, head haloed by her thin golden curls, one arm curled tightly around a ragged Muggle doll. The only toy my mother would allow her.

I knelt at her bedside and touched her hand softly. Physical contact was not necessary for Legilimency, but often eased it. _I'm so sorry, my dearest, but I must see for myself what happened to you if I am to help you properly._

Her memories were as sharp as anyone else's I had ever seen. Sharper, if anything. I had never doubted that her difficulties were with communication, not perception, but was pleased to see the theory at least partially confirmed nonetheless.

It pained me to see how monotonous her days had been, especially since the attack. She'd not been farther than the backyard since we'd fled to Godric's Hollow, and frequently spent weeks on end confined to her room in winter. Our poor mother simply couldn't imagine another way to handle her, which was perhaps unsurprising given the examples she had. Ariana's life, however far from ideal, was paradise compared to a Muggle madhouse or even a solitary ward at St. Mungo's.

Here it was…a beautiful May afternoon in Mould-on-the-Wold, the edge of our garden…Ariana sat in a patch of dandelions, blowing at the seeds and laughing as they burst into colourful flames in midair. She'd always had an affinity for fire—I couldn't watch Fawkes on a burning day without seeing her.

There were the three Muggle boys, peering at her through the hedge. They looked to be around Aberforth's age, give or take a year. "Oi!" one of them called, making her jump. "How're you doing that?"

She hesitated, no doubt remembering some of my mother's lectures to us all on wizarding secrecy. "I don't know," she answered finally. "I just…I think, and it happens. It doesn't work for me all the time, though."

"Teach me," ordered the boy, pushing his way through the hedge and into the yard. "That'd be a damn useful trick to know, making fire."

She backed away instinctively as he advanced, dandelion seeds still hovering in the air around her like fireflies. "No, I can't—please, you shouldn't be here…"

"Aw, come on, it can't be that hard. We've seen your brothers in here doing funny stuff too, you know. One of 'em was floating off the ground once! Why should you get to have all the fun, eh?"

The other two boys had come through the hedge as well. One of them snatched a dandelion seed from midair, and almost immediately opened his hand again with a shout. The fire, instead of being extinguished, had lit up every point on his skin that had touched the seed and kept spreading even as he tried to smother it.

The first boy rounded on Ariana. "Stop it!" he yelled. When she merely stood there, frozen in fear, he closed the distance between them and hit her in the face with all the force he could muster. "Make it stop, you little cunt!"

It was nearly unbearable to watch. She crumpled to the ground, whimpering as he kicked at her, and the third boy ran to assist the first. A fierce wind picked up, carrying away the cacophony of screams.

A blinding burst of white light, a thousandfold brighter than phoenix fire—

The last thing I saw was my sister slumping in a dead faint amidst three charred and mutilated corpses, golden hair and porcelain skin stained crimson, and then I was back in the dark beside her. Thank Merlin, she had not stirred.

My mother found me the next morning still clasping Ariana's hand.

* * *

><p><em>15 August 1893<em>

Kendra strode along the narrow corridors without any signs of trepidation, following just behind the guard. A couple of the inmates staggered forward and clutched at the bars of their cells as she passed, to leer or plead with her for help. Somewhere above, a howl sounded. Even now, before the days of Dementors, Azkaban was not a place where many retained their sanity for long.

They climbed into the highest reaches of the labyrinth, where the prisoners considered more dangerous were kept. The lower cells were reserved for petty criminals, thieves and the like who were sentenced to only a few months at most. As they ascended, the cells grew smaller and the walls thicker, until they resembled nothing so much as a series of windowless broom closets.

The guard halted at a corner cell. "This one, ma'am. You have ten minutes."

A man lay on the single board that served as a pallet for prisoners, a man who barely resembled the one he'd been on the day his wife and children had last seen him. Percival Dumbledore's once magnificent auburn hair retained only traces of its colour, bleached ash-grey by stress and deprivation, and his round face had hollowed out into a gaunt mask. Even his sky-blue eyes seemed to have been drained of pigment, although they grew bright with emotion when they saw Kendra. He rose immediately despite his apparent weakness and pressed himself against the invisible magical barrier between them; she did the same.

"It's been two years, three months, and eight days since I last saw your face, Kendra," he said hoarsely, "but right now I'd swear it hadn't been an hour."

She placed a fingertip over her mouth and spoke directly into his mind. _Shh, Percival. It's Albus under Polyjuice. I'm here because I know you're innocent._


	4. Such Fire as the Stars

**AN: **Bit shorter chapter than usual this time, but I'm glad that sticking to the once-a-month update schedule isn't a problem yet. Enjoy :3

* * *

><p><em>S<em>_eh__t ihr's nicht?_  
><em>Immer lichter<em>  
><em>wie er leuchtet,<em>  
><em>stern-u<em>_mstrahlt_  
><em>hoch sich hebt?<em>

[Do you not see?  
>Ever brighter<br>how he glows,  
>star-haloed<br>he rises high?]

—Richard Wagner, _Tristan und Isolde_

* * *

><p><em>16 March 1894<em>

In those days, too, there were names that wizards did not speak. Not out of fear, not anymore. The names had died out but for a few polite references in history books, nothing controversial or too revealing, always written in a way that encouraged the reader to overlook them. Not that history would ever do them the dishonour of outright lies, but it frequently did them the courtesy of looking the other way. It was so much simpler that way, for both history and its subjects.

Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel were living ghosts, relics nearly five hundred years out of their time. Most of the wizarding world had forgotten them entirely or supposed them long vanished into the mists of time, and this was exactly how they preferred it. How they'd engineered it, even. When one is in possession of the only known artifact guaranteed to grant immortality and unlimited wealth, one may well wish to avoid the public eye when possible.

Avoiding the public eye was a nearly impossible task, however, at the Palais Garnier opera house, and tonight's premiere of Massenet's _Thaïs_ was no different. It was a bit of a Parisian tradition to spend one's time at the opera observing the other operagoers rather than the performers, and many of the Parisian _beau monde_ were familiar by now with the sight of the two oddly dressed Brits (or were they Germans?) in their private box. Nobody could recall ever seeing them in the lobby or the washrooms, nor could anybody claim to have spoken to them, but they were present at every premiere and always appeared quite engrossed in the performance, particularly the man. Luckily for them, they had been a fixture at the opera long enough to merit only passing curiosity.

Tonight's opera told the tragic story of an Alexandrian courtesan and a monk, Thaïs and Athanaël. Perenelle watched with her usual detachment, contemplating the Muggle obsessions with love and the divine. They manifested in the same tales, always. Wizards knew of the powers love could invoke, yet Muggles ascribed even more mystique to it on faith alone. Perhaps because it was all they had. Perenelle, for all that she remembered the days when wizards and Muggles had been more united than divided, could not abide the idea of a life without magic.

Athanaël sang one last plea to God for mercy as Thaïs died in his arms, and the curtain fell. A crescendo of applause replaced the strains of the orchestra.

"I do hope the next century will find something to write operas about other than women who died for love or whoring," Perenelle murmured to Nicolas, tucking her opera glasses neatly away into her robes.

She received no response, and glanced over at her husband. She ought to have been unsurprised after five hundred years of marriage to see tears on his face, but surprised she was. It was perhaps not so much the emotion itself she marvelled at so much as the fact that he still could feel it so keenly; she'd not been moved to tears in two centuries, nor indeed laughter in one. She reached for his hand briefly, a gesture that was all that needed to be said. They sometimes went years without speaking to each other, but not a day without communicating.

They stood to go as the cast reappeared for curtain call, as was their custom, and exited their box into the corridor. Fortunately for them the opera house was always slow to empty. Nicolas was about to reach for Perenelle's arm to Apparate home when a bright silver lynx materialized before them.

_The Dumbledore boy believes he has made a breakthrough in his research_, it said in the voice of Phineas Nigellus Black. _Come at your leisure, my lord and lady_.

Perenelle lifted an eyebrow. "If he dared send a Patronus into a place so full of Muggles, this may be worth looking into."

Nicolas nodded and briefly dabbed at his eye with a handkerchief. "Interesting indeed, although I can't say I trust Black's sense of what constitutes an academic breakthrough."

"No, but the Dumbledore boy might fare better. I don't think I've ever met another twelve-year-old so well-versed in scientific theory. Shall we?"

The patrons in the next box over had begun to file out by now, two parents and three children all dressed in the highest fashion of the day. The youngest girl looked back just in time to see Perenelle spare her a grin as the Flamels Apparated away.

They reappeared in Phineas Nigellus' office, where the Charms master and Albus Dumbledore were in the middle of an intense discussion. Both student and professor stopped dead the instant the Flamels appeared.

"Dear me. Am I right in surmising that your results are somewhat unorthodox, Albus?" Nicolas asked with a small smile.

"Not so much my results as my methods, sir," Albus said. "I believe I have succeeded in using dragon's blood to render nearly any object invulnerable to any type of fire, but Professor Black does not think it advisable to create Fiendfyre for use in a demonstration."

"I certainly would not think it advisable for you or even Professor Black to do so," said Perenelle, "but I would be happy to. Do you have an object prepared to demonstrate on?"

Albus hesitated. "Before I answer, I think it may be wise to to tell you some of the specifics of my experiments. May I?" At a curt nod from Perenelle, he went on. "The idea that all parts of a dragon's body must have some kind of fireproof properties is an ancient one, but I could find no accounts of dragon's blood specifically being tested for this, probably because there are so many enchantments already that can repel fire, and because it is particularly difficult to obtain. I began testing its effects on inanimate objects—metal and stone—subjected to ordinary fire, and then moved on to organic matter that had once been alive, and subjecting them to several kinds of enchanted fire. I spent four months perfecting these experiments before beginning work on a potion that could protect living creatures through ingestion rather than immersion, and did so with the utmost caution. Once I had succeeded using a mouse, I…well, I replicated the experiment with myself as the subject. So—"

"You did _what_?" Phineas Nigellus interrupted. "Master Dumbledore, that is the sort of foolishness I would expect from a first year eager to charm her eyes a different colour, but _never_ from a member of the Alchemist's Cell! Imagine the trouble that could have befallen me had it gone wrong! As long as you are underage, Hogwarts is liable for—"

Nicolas Flamel held up a hand. "Phineas, were you listening to the boy? If his account is truthful, he has been nothing if not careful throughout the process. I am sure he is aware of Hogwarts' legal responsibilities towards him, and would not have taken any risks without good reason for doing so."

Phineas pursed his lips, but kept his silence.

Albus' face had turned nearly as red as his hair. "I…I am very grateful for your confidence in me, sir."

"I do recommend you find a volunteer who is of age and magically competent the next time you require a human test subject," said Nicolas gently.

"I shall be sure and do so in the future, sir."

"Back on the subject of your results, Albus, I gather that you wish to use yourself to show dragon's blood's resistance to Fiendfyre?" Perenelle interjected.

"I do, my lady."

"Out of the question," Phineas huffed. "This will be performed on an animal Transfigured from an inanimate object, or not at all."

Perenelle turned to Phineas. "Do you think me so unaccomplished a sorceress that I cannot control any spell of my own casting? I assure you that should anything go awry I can vanish the Fiendfyre and heal any wounds in an instant."

"Oh, very well then, my lady," Phineas relented grudgingly. "Albus, understand that I allow this more out of my faith in Lady Flamel's abilities than in yours."

"I do understand, sir." Albus drew a vial of moss-coloured liquid from within his robes. "Let me first note that the dragon who contributed to this potion was a Common Welsh Green, the only species with blood of this hue. Investigation of the effects of other species' blood may be in order."

"The details do not concern me yet," Perenelle said. "Take the potion."

Albus drained the vial with a suppressed grimace and squared his shoulders. "I am ready, Lady Flamel."

Perenelle pressed the tip of her wand onto Albus' palm, and out of it slithered fire in the shape of a snake. Albus stood perfectly still, not daring even to breathe as the snake wound itself around and up his arm. The Fiendfyre could touch him, but not affect him.

"Well," grunted Phineas, "for a second year—"

His next words were lost in a burst of light. Where the snake had curled on Albus' shoulder a moment ago, the fire had now taken the shape of a phoenix.

"Perenelle, did you…" Nicolas began.

"No," Perenelle said quietly, "no, I did not."

The bird spread its blazing wings, sending light and shadow dancing across the room.


End file.
